Edith Wharton

A Hunting Song

Hunters, where does Hope nest?Not in the half-oped breast,Nor the young rose,Nor April sunrise—thoseWith a quick wing she brushes,The wide world through,Greets with the throat of thrushes,Fades from as fast as dew.

But, would you spy her sleeping,Cradled warm,Look in the breast of weeping,The tree stript by storm;But, would you bind her fast,Yours at last,Bed-mate and lover,Gain the last headland bareThat the cold tides cover,There may you capture her, there,Where the sea gives to the groundOnly the drift of the drowned.Yet, if she slips you, once found,Push to her uttermost lairIn the low house of despair.There will she watch by your head,Sing to you till you be dead,Then, with your child in her breast,In another heart build a new nest.